"And," added the man, "what the devil have you done to be still here?"
What the devil, indeed! But there I was. "The great thing," said I, "is to make an end of it"; and once more proposed that he should help me to find a guide.
"C'est que," he said again, "c'est que—il fait noir."
"Very well," said I; "take one of your lanterns."
"No," he cried, drawing a thought backward, and again intrenching himself behind one of his former phrases; "I will not cross the door."
I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on his face with unaffected shame; he was smiling pitifully and wetting his lip with his tongue, like a detected school-boy. I drew a brief picture of my state, and asked him what I was to do.
"I don't know," he said; "I will not cross the door."
Here was the Beast of Gévaudan, and no mistake.
